


Why This Is Hell, Nor Am I Out Of It

by AquitaineQueen24



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fantasizing, I can't begin to comprehend or attempt to articulate Michael's self-esteem and sibling issues, I had 'Mr. Brightside' by the Killers on constantly while writing this, Nudity, One-Sided Attraction, Oral Sex, Physical Disability, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Fantasy, for they are legion, season five
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:46:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26365921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquitaineQueen24/pseuds/AquitaineQueen24
Summary: 'Being naked. As the second human fear there ever was, he’d always felt it rather lacking. Now he feels that fear turn and bite deep while he imagines being peeled bare and tumbled into her bed.'In which Michael broods at the knowledge that Lucifer and Chloe are taking each other to bed, and secretly yearns for Heaven.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar, Michael & Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), one sided michael/chloe decker
Comments: 6
Kudos: 66





	Why This Is Hell, Nor Am I Out Of It

_Be afraid_ he whispers to Chloe, while she’s preparing to step inside Lux and her fear is drifting up to where he’s crouched, a stupid sweaty little dread of apologising and potentially taking the deep plunge into kickstarting sex – oh, and she _still_ doesn’t feel she’s good enough for Samael. She clearly doesn’t like being on the wrong side of that delicious bubbling agony, of whether something you desire so deeply is an illusion that can be ripped away – and what do you know, it _was!_ Turnabout is fair play, Chloe.

He demands her fear when she’s ascending to the heavens via elevator. He commands it when he feels her stepping into Samael’s presence.

Really?

They’re just standing and talking? Oh, please. Get angry, get defensive. Duel and parry, retreat or run for the hills once more, just fucking do _something_ other than stare at each other and mumble _._ Must they _always_ be waiting and waiting for each other?

Stuck outside in the…admittedly undramatic warm night, he screams **_Be afraid._** He wants to scratch at Chloe’s brain enough that she’ll tremble when Samael gets too close! _It’ll never work, darling, even if you_ are _incredible. Better leave while you still can._

Alas, desire trumps fear. Her fright’s lost to all that blazing burning joy. He feels Chloe slip from his touch to charge into Samael’s arms, the soft squash of Samael’s lips with their teeth clashing together and _there_

he’s shut out of their tryst. Without even realising he was _there_ they shove him back so hard he stumbles; he nearly slides off the roof. The cut’s throbbing great bursts of heat and there are tiny black suns travelling across his eyes, they keep fluttering and blooming even after he blinks. Rude.

He sees no more. _Thank Dad._ **_Traumatized for life_** otherwise.

This is a minor setback in a major operation. Almost inevitable they’d give into their desires now that Samael’s slithered out of his penance yet a-fucking- _gain._ There is opportunity in all this. There’s work to do, dear dumb Daniel Espinoza and Miss Mazikeen to load, prime and aim. Plus he has pigeon shit all over his shoes. He should go.

It’s not even like he can _hope_ that the sex is awful for them.

Thinking about it is pointless. Like tugging a scabbing, healing wound apart. Like testing the strength of the flesh and bone that never fully healed.

Still. Still,

does the stern detective tremble when Samael lays her out?

How does the Devil touch his God-given, glorious miracle?

Will he simply part his clothes and enter her even while she’s still struggling with her own?

He might do as he did in the Garden: go down on his knees like a human bleating to Father, plunging his tongue and fingers in every hole he can find. Get her all wet and ready to be ploughed and delved. Sucking, licking, digging, biting like beasts in the field. How is there any reverence in such rummaging?

Would Chloe bear that kind of treatment? Eve did. Innocent first mother of all plus only Adam for comparison, so even Samael’s groping was surely a relief. Chloe knows better, she knows she deserves better. She could have _had_ better. How can she bear to be pawed, _plucked_ and have her flesh spread wide open by the fingers, teeth and tongue of another? How does any human bear it?

So, Samael. If he still has the brains Father gifted him then he’ll stay _right_ beneath Chloe where he belongs: prone and abject on his stomach, free for her to do as she wills. Better yet, on his back, with plenty of spots for her to jab with a blade or pierce with a bullet, even grab his hair for a better position to slit his face or his throat. 

Chloe Decker rising above _the great Lucifer Morningstar_ in order to bring him to her feet with a blow or a kiss, or just a word. A puff from those mortal lungs topples the Devil. _He_ himself, now, should have struck her down at the very moment she pressed herself to his lips, never mind the plan. Samael thinks _he_ becomes weak in her presence? She’d make anyone weak. Her bones are as light as those in his wings and just as strong.

Picture it: Chloe’s hair mussed about her face, eyes and lips a trance of desire, steely slender solid arms about his neck. It all could be playing out right now in Samael’s bed. His brother might not even be _on_ the bed but naked and fallen to the floor. Chloe crouching over him just as naked and glistening, perhaps even sliding free as Lucifer **_Samael_** slips out of her.

She deserves better, she demands it. Think of her _standing_ over him with a foot on his chest or on his genitals-

-fuck. Is this his brother’s doing? Samael sending out a shockwave of lust while finally getting laid? The tightness in his flesh, the tenderness. Prickles of rebel blood flowing and gushing defiant? Oh Dad, no. _Please_ no. Not his brother’s dregs. Not the shadow of what Samael’s having. _Anything else please._ Think of, think of

of the revelation that came as he stared up at Chloe, her bullet burning inside him. Every image there’s ever been that humans have ever scrawled or daubed to pay him the service he’s due. St. Michael, Who Is Like God, commander of the Armies of Heaven, sword in hand and his foe the Devil defeated and naked at his feet, lower than that, _lower._ Here standing astride the Devil, here with a foot on the Devil’s neck, here standing on his breast to crush him, here standing on the Devil’s back to force his face into the earth, here standing on his head to smash it underfoot,

here with a sword here with shield here with a spear here with chains for the captive here needing no more than a foot to beat him down here with hair of gold or brown or red or metal here with wings of white or wings of grey or wings of many colours here angry here disgusted here

_serene_

He struggles, it persists: Chloe clad in armour. Tunic, breast plate, helmet, golden sandals. No, better. Still as naked as her foremother in Paradise, only suffused with the righteous fury Eve could never hope to summon. Breasts heaving with her raising of the sword - no, a spear (a gun) so she won’t sully herself with his base blood, readying her weapon to pierce his breast again.

How did she even know? Sure, _detective_ ; but how did she know how exactly and perfectly to hurt _me?_

Being naked. As the second human fear there ever was, he’d always felt it rather lacking. Now he feels that fear turn and bite deep while he imagines being peeled bare and tumbled into that penthouse bed. He’d be squirming beneath the bones of Chloe’s foot or the point of her spear (the barrel of her gun). There’d be no merciful trampling for _him;_ she’d just skewer and kick him aside with barely a glance. No regard.

Fine. She clearly doesn’t want him. She can have _Samael_ sprawled beneath her and he will just slither slide in behind brother’s face once again. If Chloe can be St. Michael, why can’t St. Michael play the Serpent in their game? Wait beneath Samael’s skin. Prop himself up on his good right arm. Reach up to touch Chloe’s knee in supplication and to feel the soft skin at the back of it. Pull her closer to give him his own chance.

Raise her strong tender thigh up _up_ so he can rest that soft knee on his good shoulder, open her wide and wider, spread her flesh beneath those heavy scented curls. Her fingers in his hair. A kiss for her thigh, a bite, a kiss higher up while she curls over and about him to keep herself from falling in pleasure. Her soft belly pressing into his brow while her sweat’s running hot as blood. He wants her breasts, he wants her lips that pushed against his face and shoved him into stumbling for her, he wants her terrible wonderful fingers, he wants her teeth. Oh, he _wants._

_Oh, Lucifer_. A puff from those mortal lungs would knock him down as well. The force, the pure hate in this shove with her hands is like that first betraying bullet all over again. His good shoulder is actually not good at all, not when she is forcing him back to the ground. And while getting up off him she steps on his face, breathing _Lucifer._

Here, in reality, he could crack open his true flesh (his crooked but it’s the only game in town wing) so he can get away to fly high above the mortals scrabbling below him, so he doesn’t think about _too late_

lying on his back in Samael’s lair boiling in the humiliation that she tricked him with her **_acting_** , the desire that she truly wanted him was only his desire but the fear that she didn’t want him at all, that was real and true.

Probe a shoulder and wing to see how far it’s broken; test a wound to see how much it will always hurt.

She’ll step past and over him without even any hate left in her. He no longer exists. He’ll push himself back up with his bad _bad_ shoulder that’ll never be good or strong again, but still prone on his stomach with rocks scraping the span of his skin, he’ll try to grip Chloe’s heel.

She slips from him just as Samael darted between his feet to escape his proper due punishment, barrelling down to Hell. She indeed kicks him aside. He’ll writhe about to see Samael lounging perfectly at ease, grinning at his plight

_poor pitiful little Michael, it really_ has _always been about trying to be me_

before he turns stupidly blissful for Chloe. He waits for her naked and ready as Adam, prime for a gelding if she chooses it. Without care or concern his twin places himself in this mortal woman’s hands as she kisses and strokes him. Her fingers very gently tracing on his cheek and chin, her hand squeezing and rubbing about his cock, which is worse. Which _truly_ is worse?

Imagine if the stern detective is the one who lays Samael out and presses him down by his wrists, letting him stretch up for his kiss as she straddles him. Surrendering. Wallowing. This little patch of Home that Father decreed and ordered for them and _Lucifer_ _doesn’t even care,_ _he’s that happy._

Why. Why?

You think _you’re_ the only one He doesn’t answer, Sami? Even when someone’s wrestled their way, all the way, to His right hand? Listen. Listen right now, Father: why is it that unworthy Samael gets such a gift, why do You still see him and what do you even see? What do I have to _do?_ What else is there for me? I’ve given you my life my life all my _life_ so why?

Enough. Pathetic. Little slope shouldered Michael, gazing at that penthouse as if it were the Silver City. While he’s kneeling here in shit and envy with a face feeling like it’s about to split open again plus _yet another_ erection, Samael is revelling in Father’s gift of heavenly bliss and approval just as Chloe is rejoicing in her conquest of the Devil. What was Dad _thinking._ What’s His design? What’s Your game, Dad?

No time. No time. This can still work. He calls for his wings, he can hardly feel the pang from the right one thanks to the mess in his face. Up and away. The wind is cool on this body’s damp skin, and every beat further away from that bed where _they_ lie together means the sick pressure eases.

Okay, Detective Daniel Espinoza: laid bare and not only afraid but ideally _reeking_ of fear, now that Hell is really real and the Devil is here. He himself shall be Archangel Michael Who Is Like God, appearing again to another Daniel. Find him, blind him, wind him up and watch him go, see what happens, _profit._ After that Amenadiel and his spawn, then to Miss Mazikeen.

Whatever comes of it, he can make this work. The plan will survive contact with the enemy. He’s come this far. Those two don’t deserve to have found each other. They’ll see. The playthings in this realm Samael’s built for himself will see him and the game he’s been playing with them.

Think of Samael alarmed when his ‘friends’ turn in his hand and bite deep, slip through his fingers and kick him away. Think of the worship from his playthings faltering. Imagine Samael on his back in that penthouse with a bullet in him courtesy of Daniel, his bracelet buddy. Oh, and Chloe standing above her current lover shot by her ex-lover and brimming with the terror that if she stays by his side, her current lover will bleed out! Beautiful.

Or if his theory’s correct, further down the line he can _wallow_ in the spectacle of Samael believing he’s totally invulnerable and untouchable once again, even while his one desire realises, she’s just that. A desire giving her heart to someone who doesn’t deserve it yet _again._ Samael will be horror struck as he realises, in spite of every single thing, Chloe just can’t believe he loves her. Glorious.

It’s such a glorious waging of war. It’s like taking the Silver City out from under the feet and noses of their siblings, all over again. Heavenly. It’s Heaven.

**Author's Note:**

> Title of course taken from the rant of Mephistopheles in Christopher Marlowe's Doctor Faustus!
> 
> This whole story really came about because I've seen a lot of artistic depictions of Michael fighting the Devil (Michael might not have much time for humans, but he has a lot of time for their art that makes him look exceptionally good and stylish) and I just found it funny that this time round in 'Lucifer! Lucifer! Lucifer!' MICHAEL was the one lying on the ground with the righteous victor standing over him.
> 
> Of course, it also came about because, to quote myself: I gotta write some ‘Michael out in the cold, gnashing his teeth, tearing at himself enough to draw blood, as he watches Lucifer and Chloe kiss’. I gotta do it. I love the image of a person who dwells in hell (whether of their own making or thrust down there unfairly and unwilling to pull themselves out) while secretly yearning for heaven.
> 
> Shout out to this post for helping us realise the weird irony of Archangel Michael approaching another fella named Daniel: https://seeleybooth.tumblr.com/post/628607211355144192/i-needi-need-a-sign-i-need-something-help-me


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